Under Fire
Disclaimer: If you recognize it then I don't own it.
A/N: For Whumptober 2022 #26 No one left behind- separated
Tully sat behind the fifty caliber gun mounted on his jeep. He constantly scanned the desert with his eyes and ears. The Rat Patrol was far behind enemy lines and open season for any Germans that came along. The Kentuckian was a man that grew up outside, attuned to nature. Even in so alien a place from his mountain home so far away he could sense her subtle changes. Man-made things didn't flow in quite the same ways. Wildlife was never a big fan of when humans were on the move, going silent or fleeing from the presence of the strange two-legged predator. Vehicles roared and kicked up great plums of dust in the sand. Even a man on foot would slip and stumble whereas an animal wouldn't.
The Private looked down on the Sargents. He watched the two study a crudely drawn map before falling into a discussion before they agreed on where the location was and started digging. The mission was to recover something buried in a deep gulley, where it had to be ditched when the ever-changing lines had placed it in enemy territory. The brass had sent the patrol out for the quick retrieval, claiming it would be an easy in and out. That was easy for the officers riding a desk safely nestled behind their own lines to say, but Tully didn't trust easy. Behind the wheel of a jeep or handling a fifty as you sped through the swirling sand and whizzing bullets the war looked very different than the black-and-white maps. Supposed milk runs were the ones that got men killed.
The two drivers were stationed on each side of the dry wadi to keep an eye out for the enemy coming from either direction. The two men below them were now arguing over some point about the retrieved package as they pulled it up from the dirt. Tully met the eyes of his fellow wheelman briefly, he shrugged before going back to the dry landscape. He didn't claim to understand the figuring of NCOs. He was happy to drive and shoot in whatever direction his Sargents pointed him. He may be simple but he wasn't dumb or slow like some of the soldiers thought of him based on his reserved nature and upbringing. He had nothing to prove to them. All that mattered was having his team's back and doing his duty. He tried not to complicate war like his fellow rats sometimes did. He'd shoot the enemy before they could shoot him, end of story. He would kill to protect his guys. He'd go along with orders willingly without question unless it went against one of his buddies in some way, then he may balk a little, raise concerns, or even bend the rules a mite.
Tully spent too much time wool-gathering, he sensed the movement seconds before pain exploded in his shoulder. The report of a rifle sounded as he fell from his place at the mounted gun, rolling to a dusty stop beside his jeep and laying still. A group of angry Arabs ran down from a nearby dune. They knew the lay of the land and had the home-field advantage. They were born in the sand and knew her touch more intimately than the Rommel and his forces or a mountain boy from Kentucky. Their wild shots sent the Sargents scurrying up the sandy incline away from their charge, heading for Hitch and his jeep. The bespectacled rat was laying down as much cover fire as he could, eating through the belts of ammo as he cut through the robed forces only for the fallen men to be replaced as fast as they fell. He tried not to think of his buddy that had gone down on the other side and had not gotten back up.
The three Allied soldiers emptied their weapons into what felt like a neverending mass, making little impact. Troy had to hold back the youngest member when he made to rush across to the empty jeep on the other side before it was overrun by the quickly approaching men.
"Tully!" Hitch cried fighting his hold to get to his downed friend.
Troy shook him but refused to lose two men, "Tully wouldn't want you to get your head blown off."
"Doc?" Hitch turned his anguished eyes to his only other hope to get to his friend, their friend. Tully was the Brits' driver, they had grown close, and surely he would help him to save their downed teammate. The Englishman's face was a closed mask of hidden fury as he shot down the enemy like a man possessed. Troy looked torn in two as he pushed the weakly struggling man to the driver's seat and grabbed Jack's arm pulling him to the jeep as well. They both continued to fire their weapons, the only pause was to reload as Hitch started the jeep only to hesitate as he looked over at its silent twin.
Under heavy fire, Troy had no choice but to give the order with a heavy heart, "Hitch, get us out of here."
The three members of the Rat Patrol were silent as they drove away. The only sound was the occasional shot, once Sam demanded that his fellow Sargent stop wasting bullets, and the roar of the engine. The mission was a success but at what cost?
Nearly silent footsteps approached from around the jeep, surrounding it in victory. Once the other jeep had fled from them, the men of the desert stopped shooting and walked to the one with the dead man to raid it of all its goods. With cheers and excited chatter, they spat upon the fallen infidel, bestowing a few kicks to the body as they climbed over the conquered vehicle.
An inhuman and terrifying yell split the air, making hairs stand on end and hearts turn cold. The American, thought dead, let out another Rebel yell as he unleashed an unpinned grenade onto his own jeep. He threw himself back into the wadi, falling down the sandy slopes as the world exploded around him. The jeep's gasoline had been ignited turning the once mighty little machine into a death trap as flames continued to reach for the sky. Billows of smoke and fire erupted as screams of the dying rent the air. The once jubilant men had celebrated prematurely and had been defeated by a lone Private with a grenade and no real plan except to go down fighting.
When the wave of the explosion reached the retreating jeep the trio didn't have to exchange a word before Hitch had the jeep turned around heading back the way they'd come. They were shocked to find a smoldering heap of metal and dead and wounded men littered around it. They quickly took out any survivors that still wanted a fight. None of them could spot a helmeted form. Moffit left the jeep at a run, leaving the Americans to catch up, as he searched desperately for his driver. The destruction had all the signs of the soft-spoken man and his love for fire and explosives. There was a reason he liked to fire the bazooka any chance he got. Had this been his last defiant act?
Shuffling movement sounded below them. The three of them turned from the destroyed vehicle to the edge of the incline. Tully painfully climbed up out of the wadi. He was singed, bruised, and bleeding but alive. He reached into his pocket with his good arm and pulled out a matchstick, placing it in his mouth. He looked back at the burning jeep and with a wry smile he explained slowly, "Sorry, Sarge, I got separated."